


Folded Neatly Away

by searwrites (sears)



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, minor UST, toxic masculinity, vague mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sears/pseuds/searwrites
Summary: Kieren just might be the best thing Rick's ever known, or ever will know.





	Folded Neatly Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dewinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewinter/gifts).



> Dearest dewinter,
> 
> Thank you for the lovely prompt for this lovely show and lovely pairing. I was hoping to try and gift you something a bit more light hearted, but I fear I may have missed the mark on that. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it and continue to love this tragic and soft pairing.

"Excuse me," this tiny little thing with enormous eyes and long eyelashes says, pushing past Rick with his head dipped down.

Rick is barely ten years old, but somehow, he knows in that instant that this boy is going to end up being more important to Rick than he has any right to be. His name is Kieren, Rick already knows that much about him, and he's fascinating, different to anything or anyone Rick's ever seen. He doesn't speak much, but he's always present, always commands attention from wherever he is in the room.

Later, when they're older, Kieren will tell Rick that he was intimidated by him, and Rick will bite down the urge to say that he was far more intimidated by Kieren than Kieren could ever possibly have been by him.

It starts off simple enough: Rick laying on his elbow during class, watching Kieren scribble all over a torn piece of notebook paper.

"I can't draw," Rick mumbles into the curve of his elbow.

Kieren looks perplexed. "Of course you can," he says.

"Can't," Rick huffs, "I do karate though. Could kick your arse."

Rick's chest goes a bit tight when Kieren's bright expression droops into something like a frown, though it shifts back into a smile when Rick sends him a cheeky grin.

"Yeah, right," Kieren says.

They settle into a comfortable silence, a moment that leaves way for other sounds to claim a sort of nostalgic significance—the sticky sounds the crayons and coloured pencils make when they lift from the paper, the rumbling drag of them over the wood of the desk beneath. It all echoes through Rick's elbow right into his ear, which somehow makes it seem like the sounds are being created just for him.

Before Kieren, Rick had never felt this kind of calm. It's always been adrenaline, competitions in footie and karate, keeping up with his father's increasingly demanding expectations, never allowed to soften or decompress.

"Will you draw me one of them?" Rick asks, tilting his chin towards Kieren's paper.

"One of what?" Kieren asks.

"Anything."

Kieren smirks down at the paper, says, "They don't come cheap."

Rick rolls his eyes while Kieren giggles to himself.

They start up a friendship that manages to barrel quickly from tentative right into firm declarations that they're best mates. Kieren opens up to him and surprises him day by day with his wit and humor. He seems so much older than he is, despite looking so much younger, and Rick can't help but be in awe of it—of him.

About a week or so after they begin spending more time together at school, Kieren passes him a note after class, scampering off before Rick has a chance to ask him what it is. He's expecting words—some sort of cheek since Kieren can be a bit of a shit once you get to know him—but that's not what he gets.

Unfolding the paper reveals a colorful sketch of two boys laid out on some yellow and green grass, covered by the purple and pink shade of some trees. Rick's face goes inexplicably warm at the immediate assumption that this is meant to be the two of them—that this moment came directly from Kieren's brain. The feeling of it frightens him enough to fold the paper back into a tight little square, stuffing it quickly into his pocket. Despite the fear, he vows that day to keep it forever.

 

\--

 

Kieren doesn't settle into the mold that Roarton has carved out for him. While Rick grows up with footie practice and having a warm beer to himself with his dad when they watch games on the telly, Kieren grows up with paint staining his trousers and his nails sometimes painted black. He gets these looks off people like he's offended them, and Rick doesn't understand. They're barely teenagers, at that awkward stage where you're still trying to figure yourself out, but people seem to think Kieren is already some kind of lost cause.

To Rick, it's the opposite of that. He's too advanced, too ahead of his time, despite his music taste being set in the past by the time they enter secondary school. Sometimes Rick thinks if people would just listen to him talk for a bit, hear what he has to say, they might see it too. He's intelligent, so much so that sometimes it's baffling that he even likes spending time with someone like Rick. 

He's been around the Legion pub enough to know the types of people this town doesn't like. He's heard the words that manage to hurt him just as much as he thinks they'd hurt Kieren. They're afraid of sensitivity, of displaying any kind of emotion that isn't drunk camaraderie. Masculinity isn't recommended, it's required, and as they grow older Rick sometimes finds himself frustrated enough to wish Kieren would just fake it sometimes.

He hates himself for those thoughts. As if he'd ever want Kieren to be anything but himself, anyone other than the boy with pretty eyes and pretty hands that draws and wears studded belts and combat boots.

As if he'd ever want Kieren to be more like him.

 

\--

 

Sometimes Kieren has off days—days where he's sad for seemingly no reason. It starts towards the end of primary school and becomes more of a common occurrence the more secondary school progresses. His parents always gently try to get Rick to leave him be when he's like this, but being stubborn as an ox seems to be a trait that runs in Rick's family, and he always politely refuses to go.

It confuses Rick at first, even scares him a little, but he gets better at handling Kieren during these types of days as time goes on.

Rick makes himself at home on Kieren's narrow bed, leaving Kieren to sit in a tightly knit little ball at the foot of it. Kieren's just been barred from his house, so Rick can only come here now, if they're to spend any time together like this, somewhere warm and indoors. Not like Kieren would leave his room today anyway, but still.

It's probably his dad's fault, Rick realizes, although Kieren has explained to him a few times now that it isn't anybody's fault, it just _is_. But Rick's dad had yelled at him point blank, had called him a degenerate with spittle flying out his mouth, and it made Kieren cry. It made Rick want to cry too, but he's not allowed to do that—never has been.

"You ever think there's people that live on other planets?" Rick asks, scrambling for conversation topics as he pokes his socked foot into Kieren's thigh.

Kieren shrugs, picking at a hole in his trousers.

"I think there is. Cause you don't know, do you? Don't think anybody knows what's out there."

"You know there are scientists that actually study this, right?" Kieren says, sending him a weak smirk from beneath the fall of his hair that is as relieving to Rick as it is obnoxious.

"Shitebag, of course I know that. But they don't even really know, do they?"

Kieren's smirk slips, and his gaze falls back into his lap.

"Feels like Roarton itself is another planet," Kieren says quietly.

Rick's dad has been saying to him for a while now that Kieren is a bit too odd, that there's something not right with him—that Rick shouldn't be associating with his "type". If there's any truth in that, it's that Kieren does feel a bit alien—to Roarton, not to Rick. Kieren can sometimes be confusing and frightening to Rick, but never because he's different or "odd".

"People are just people, I think," Rick says, frowning as he thinks through how to articulate his feelings on the matter. "No matter what planet, or what town."

Kieren glances up, looks at Rick like he's full of shite.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Course I do," Rick says, trying not to feel stung. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Not like your dad then," Kieren mumbles beneath his breath.

"Hey," Rick says, scooting down the length of the bed until he's sitting cross-legged in front of him, "I'm not him. He just doesn't know you like I do, doesn't know what to make of you."

"You do everything he says," Kieren says, his voice rising.

Rick scowls at him, has to bite down the urge to argue, because sometimes it feels like Kieren can't see sense when he's like this. And maybe it is wishful thinking on Rick's part—he'd been just as upset over the whole ordeal as Kieren had—but that doesn't mean it can't be true, that Rick would never treat Kieren the way his dad does. 

"I don't always," Rick sighs, pausing to let Kieren reply and trying not to be disappointed when he doesn't. "I stole it back from him, you know."

Kieren's eyes flick up toward him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Rick says through a growing grin, remembering the thrill of finding the CD with Kieren's neat handwriting in black ink. "He hid it in a drawer, don’t know why he didn't throw it out. It's really good. I liked it."

Kieren looks like he's trying not to smile, and then launches himself forward, nearly tackling Rick with a hug. Rick's arms suspend awkwardly for a bit, not quite sure what to do. The only form of affection he ever gets comes from his mum, but that feels nothing like this. Kieren's breath is shaky, rattling his rib cage right where it presses against Rick's. Eventually, after realizing that it's okay to do this here, that Kieren's parents probably don't care like Rick's dad does, he wraps his arms around Kieren. He's so thin, they overlap almost the entire way around.

"I'm sorry," Rick says, not knowing exactly why, but knowing he needs to say it.

Kieren doesn't reply, only shakes his head in a silent "no" into the curve of Rick's shoulder.

Something changes then, but Rick tries not to think about it too much. The hardest part is shirking the fear that his dad can somehow see the hug on him, like Kieren's marked him. It's silly he knows, but it's hard to ignore the thought that he'd liked it more than he should have—that his dad got it all wrong: it's _him_ that's odd, not Kieren.

 

\--

 

When they're both sixteen it becomes apparent to Rick that the way he looks at Kieren has at some point fundamentally changed, though it's difficult to pinpoint when it happened. For all he knows it could've been years ago, something his dad had more than likely managed to pick up on, which might explain his open hostility towards Kieren.

They're splayed out in the grass during a pathetically mild summer day, the cloud cover dimming the overall brightness. You wouldn't know it looking at Kieren, the way his head tips back, smiling up at the sky as though the timid peek of the sun warms him right through to his bones. Rick, in contrast, huddles deeper into his jacket, crossing his arms over the breadth of his chest as he shifts his gaze from the warmth of Kieren's face up to the shivering trees overhead.

They're sharing a set of earbuds, one each, the cord an anchor between them as it pumps out loud and angry music. It makes it hard to turn his head, so Rick fidgets as best he can without annoying Kieren, shuffling until their shoulders nearly touch.

"It's alright if you think it's shit," Kieren says with a tiny little smile, his eyes half closed.

Rick shrugs, his shoulders tight. "It's not bad."

Kieren can hear the reluctance in his tone—he always can. Sometimes it's almost frightening how much Kieren can see right through him. It's hard for Rick to put down the music he shares with him though, because the sole fact that he opens up any part of himself to Rick feels like a gift he should never be ungrateful for.

But honestly, some of it is shite.

"Go on then."

"It's just," Rick begins, sighing as the angry bloke screams some more about resisting something or other. "It's a bit moody, isn't it?"

Kieren laughs. "It's meant to be."

"Didn't realize music was meant to make you angry."

Kieren kicks lightly at Rick's shin with the toe of his boot.

"It's not that, it's just... it makes you think, doesn't it?"

Rick frowns. "About what?"

Kieren sighs at him, like his patience at Rick's ignorance is running thin. He knows it isn't true. Kieren's told him before that he doesn't think Rick's ignorant at all, just that he's "too restricted", whatever that means.

"That there's more out there, that people can, I don't know—" Kieren struggles with his words for a bit, huffs a hollow sounding laugh, "—think differently, I guess. Different than around here."

It's not that he hasn't thought it before, but something about this moment—the lack of the sun a stark contrast against the glow of Kieren at his side, maybe—that it finally begins to make a bit of sense.

Kieren wasn't made for Roarton. Not even made for someone like Rick.

Kieren takes his silence for indifference and skips to the next song.

"I like this one more," Rick says.

He's heard this one before, loads of times. It's got more of a melody, and an actual singer. And he sings about love and heartbreak. Rick isn't an expert on the subject, but it's far easier to relate to.

"I know you do," Kieren says.

Kieren's hand slides off his stomach where the portable CD player rests, his arm flopping between them. His little finger touches Rick's, seemingly by accident. He's got lovely hands, Rick's always thought so. He's got these slender, tapered fingers. It's an artist thing, Rick assumes—surely you need lovely hands to create lovely things. Kieren curls his finger just enough to have it brushing against Rick's, and the thought comes unbidden: they remind him of his mother's hands.

Rick turns his head, his earbud slipping out. Kieren's breathing has gone deep, and Rick smiles across at him. His lips always part a little when he's asleep, just enough to see the tips of his teeth.

"You alright there, mate?" Rick whispers, nudging gently at his shoulder.

He's well gone, it seems, as his head slumps to the side, his earbud now falling between them.

It isn't just his hands, Rick realizes. It's everything about him, really. It's his loping gait, the skinny length of his legs too long for his body. It's his neck and the elegance of it, soft and smooth like marble, veins faintly visible beneath. He's vulnerable in ways that make him worry sometimes, and yet he gives that part of himself openly to Rick. But then he's smart as a whip too, cunning, can give as good as he gets when he cares enough to fight back.

Kissing Kieren might be nice. He's thought about it before, his heart thumping loudly every time, just like now. He almost dared him once, thought he could get away with it by pretending it was just for a laugh, dizzy off a shared bottle of cider and the rush of adrenaline from just thinking about it actually happening. His eyes flick to Kieren's mouth now, and without much thought he lifts his hand, his thumb grazing ever so gently across Kieren's lower lip. Kieren's eyes flutter a bit, staying closed, though the movement is enough to jolt Rick into quickly dropping his hand.

He's thought about it, yes, but a thought is all it will ever be. An angry bloke yelling about resistance doesn't seem so far off the mark right about now.

 

\--

 

Kieren just might be the best thing Rick's ever known, or ever will know.

He listens to music that is as poetic as it is aggressive. He's always scribbling in notebooks or on the backs of napkins, and his paintings are so reflective of his personality it's almost unnerving. It's like he puts his soul onto those canvasses, asks people to look at him without having to look back. He laughs at Rick's awful jokes and treats him like it's completely normal to have flaws—like it's okay to get upset when you're hurt, to not be made of stone every second of every day.

They're laid out in Kieren's bedroom, Kieren sitting cross legged on the bed and Rick splayed out on the floor. Rick is surrounded by the painted faces of the people Kieren loves. It's for this reason that his own face peering out towards them feels almost haunting.

"I would buy one of them," Rick says, nodding towards the painting pinned to the wall.

Kieren looks up from the sketch book on his lap, mutters a soft, "Shut up."

Rick sits up then. "I would!"

Kieren tsk's at him. "I'd just give it to you," he says.

"Don't sell yourself short, mate," Rick says, thinking about the tightly folded drawing hidden in the back of his top drawer. Kieren's good at this—thinking he isn't worth all the money in the world.

"Yeah, but it's you, isn't it?"

Kieren sends him a soft, fond smile, the kind that makes Rick feel inexplicably warm. He means something to this boy. And he knows that—what kind of person is ever brave enough to make that kind of thing known? Rick would consider himself the luckiest boy in the world if he weren't so bloody afraid of what it means.

"You'll end up a starving artist, so you will."

Kieren hums, and as easy as though he's commenting on the weather, says, "That's why you're coming with me."

Rick's heart sinks, knowing his dad will never let him leave Roarton—knowing that to go with Kieren would be to lose his entire life as he knows it.

They joke about moving down to London all the time—Kieren's even been eyeing some art schools down south, but it's not an idea Rick can ever seriously entertain, so he tries not to make it seem like he's agreeing. There's nothing for people like Rick out there in the city. He'll never be at home there, and he'd lean too heavily on Kieren if they left together, despite Kieren seeming to think the opposite. It isn't fair on him. Kieren deserves to free himself from all this shite and start new.

It's a long shot that it’ll ever happen, but if it does—if Kieren finds a way out of this town—Rick needs to make sure he goes. If that means going somewhere himself—more than likely in the opposite direction—then so be it. Rick isn’t dense. Kieren will always consider him a reason to come back, or a reason to never leave at all.

Not like he hasn’t thought about it before, back when he still allowed himself to cry. Not in front of his dad—he learned not to do that pretty fucking quickly—but alone in his room sometimes, typically before sleep. Back when he was afraid and couldn’t figure out why—when he realized he was being shoved down a path that had been carved out for him, whether he liked it or not. He thought about sharing a room with Kieren, maybe kissing him then, maybe not. Just being near him would be enough. He'd miss his mum, but he could visit.

There are leaflets shoved in the top drawers of his desk: RAF, army training, regiment options, long and short-term benefits. He isn’t trying to hide them—his dad would be over the moon to see him support Queen and country—but he isn’t ready to properly consider them yet. If he’s hiding them from anyone, it’s from himself. And by association, from Kieren as well.

 

\--

 

Just before he turns seventeen, Rick gets his first "real" girlfriend—real meaning one he sees outside of school. Vicky Barnes—gorgeous really, but not much going on upstairs. He tells Kieren all about her and expects a reaction, but all he gets is Kieren's typically earnest smile and a soft "I'm happy for you".

It’s a bit shameful to hope for jealousy, but Rick can’t seem to help it.

They end up heading to a small party in the woods one night, him and Vicky. Plans of cider and ale, probably not enough fags to go around, and a lot of dull chat. Vicky has her arm around Rick’s elbow as they walk up to the clearing, when Kieren walks toward them. He sees Rick, and it’s the first time he looks hurt at not being included. Rick ends up morbidly elated by it, ends up tempted to push for more of a reaction.

“Alright,” he nods towards Kieren as he approaches them.

Kieren nods, says hello to the both of them, his quietly demure tone somehow infuriating to hear when it's directed towards him.

“What you up to then?” Kieren asks, hands fisted tight in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Off to a party in the woods,” Rick replies, tipping his head toward the clearing up ahead of them.

“Oh,” Keren says.

“It’s invite only,” Vicky feels the need to add, after a significantly awkward pause where nobody moves.

“Oh, no that’s—that’s fine, of course,” Kieren says, stumbling over himself when he realizes it sounds like he’d meant to invite himself, and Rick’s chest goes painfully tight.

 _Is this what it’ll feel like when he leaves?_ Rick wonders. _Like I’m breaking off a part of myself, like tearing my own heart in two?_

Vicky tugs impatiently on Rick’s arm and drags him away. Kieren nods a silent goodbye as Rick is pulled past him, and luckily Kieren’s gaze darts away from him quick enough not to notice the blatantly pained longing Rick's sure he has written all over his face.

“Proper weirdo,” Vicky says with a quiet giggle, just loud enough that Rick knows Kieren will have heard her.

Rick burns with anger, but as always, he’s too much of a coward to speak up in defense of the only boy he thinks he will ever love. 

He turns back to catch a look at Kieren, regretting it the instant he does, because Kieren’s stopped walking, his head dipped low as though he’s looking down at his feet.

And it comes to Rick’s attention rather abruptly—this clearing is the one that leads to the den, their den. These very woods might be as sacred to Kieren as they are to him. Even though they’re headed in the wrong direction, opposite the path to the den, it still feels to Rick as though he’s defiling something precious.

 

\--

 

It’s another one of Kieren’s bad days, one of few ones Rick is a witness to now, considering Kieren’s gotten better at avoiding him. Rick is sure Kieren likes the company on days like these, but it’s as if he doesn’t allow himself any comfort, like he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

Rick finds him in the den, huddled into a corner and dragging his finger through a lit candle. He does it as though he doesn’t care if it hurts him, and Rick flinches every time the flame flickers beneath his skin. He knows better than to tell him to stop, though. Kieren can be relentlessly stubborn.

“What you thinking?” Rick says, sitting across from him.

Kieren shrugs silently.

“You want to know what I’m thinking then?” Rick asks. Kieren shrugs again, but his gaze lifts to Rick. “I’m thinking I’m the luckiest bloke in this shite old town.”

Kieren’s expression morphs into a confused frown.

“My best mate is going to be a famous painter one day, and then I’ll get to crash at his gaff down in London as much as I like, live the high life.”

Kieren smirks a little—this tiny thing that’s almost painful to be the recipient of. He kicks out at Rick’s foot to shut him up. The thought of Kieren leaving terrifies him, but that’s the last thing Kieren needs to hear right now.

Rick presses the sole of his trainer to the sole of Kieren’s boot, flattening them so they align almost perfectly. He starts lolling his foot side to side, dragging Kieren’s along in the process in a childish attempt at lightening the mood.

“Think I’m just lucky to know you, really,” Rick says, staring intently down at their feet.

“You’re not,” Kieren mutters quietly.

“Fuck off, Ren, I am.”

Kieren tips his head back, bumping it lightly against the wall of the den.

“Sometimes it’s hard to even get out of bed in the morning,” Kieren says unprompted.

Rick thinks about the town treating him like a ghost, thinks about himself keeping Kieren here, forcing him into misery and keeping him from finding somewhere better. Worry washes over him suddenly, a thick rush of dread.

“Ren, don’t you dare,” he says lowly.

“Dare what?”

“You know what!”

Kieren sighs and Rick tries his best to quell the shake in his hands. It’s not the first time Kieren’s insinuated things like this—notions of giving up—but it’s terrifying every single time he does it.

“I’m lucky too, you know,” Kieren says quietly.

Rick decides to get up then, and Kieren looks at him like he’s expecting him to leave for about half a second before Rick shifts to slide down the wall next to him. Their arms press together, and Rick tilts his head towards Kieren as he leans back as well. Kieren’s eyelashes are so pale and long. Rick has a vague thought that they remind him of the veins in frozen leaves.

“Damn right you’re lucky,” Rick says, shoving gently at Kieren’s shoulder with his own.

Kieren laughs a little before tipping his head down to look at his hands in his lap. Rick makes the snap decision to take Kieren’s hand in his, squeezing until Kieren finally squeezes back.

Rick still doesn’t understand the days like this—doesn’t know what happens to make him this sad and dejected—but he’s past the point of asking now. Instead, he stays a solid weight to anchor Kieren to this earth, submits to the idea that maybe _he_ is why Kieren thinks he’s lucky.

 

\---

 

As Rick stumbles his way into adulthood, it becomes apparent that his room has become a protective barrier—something to keep his dad out and himself safely in. There’s his jerseys and karate ribbons and trophies, but now strewn among them are pictures of girls, torn out page three models splayed out on his desk where they’re deliberately poorly hidden.

Vicky hates it, but she’s only been over once, and Vicky hates a lot of things. Sometimes Rick thinks Vicky hates him, but it’s difficult to care about that. He cares more that she hates Kieren, although he’d rather she hated him than liked him, which seems an odd way to feel. He just wishes she wasn’t so cruel to him, is all, which is a big part in why they don't spend a whole lot of time together.

It’s easy to hide in his room—easy to shut his eyes whenever he slides his hand down his briefs, easy to let his mind wander to wherever the fuck it wants to for once. Of course, it lands on Kieren. Always does.

Even before Rick really understood what sex was, his mind had always seemed to crave Kieren. When they were younger it was Kieren’s hands, the softness of them, or his eyes and how bright they got whenever he looked in Rick’s direction. Now he’s older it’s a bit different—more the pale column of his throat, the trail of blonde hair that dips below the line of his belt, his mouth—but it’s still always him.

If his dad ever walked in, God forbid, all he’d have to do is reach over and pretend to shove some of the pictures of girls under his pillow. His dad would only find it amusing, possibly even be proud, as ill as it makes Rick to think about.

Thinking of Kieren like this isn’t even something he does consciously. Kieren is just  _there_ , this almost spectral presence in his mind that’s made more of shadow than hard edges. There are bits that end up in focus—Kieren’s eyes, bright and big, sometimes glistening wet and a bit hazy. Kieren’s mouth as well, pink and plump, his blush running down the length of his neck, a leading trail to the dip at his collarbone.

Shame always whips him across the gut after he’s finished, his hand covered in a quickly cooling mess. He wipes it on an old shirt, tosses it into the corner of his room and runs his clean hand shakily down the length of his face. He looks at the girl in a bikini on the wall beside him and feels sick to his stomach.

The worst part is he thinks Kieren might not mind if he found out about Rick doing this sort of thing. Kieren might even enjoy it, might even think similar things to Rick. He’d never want to find out. To know that and not be able to have it seems like it might be the worst feeling in the world.

There’s no fixing this, he realizes. It isn’t going away.

 

\--

 

Just after Kieren turns eighteen, he gets the letter. His luck must be running high, given as it's Rick's mum who answers the phone when he calls, instead of his dad. She pops her head in Rick's room, whispers that Kieren's invited him out.

In the den, Kieren is shaking, his knee bouncing with a folded sheet of paper held in his hands. He looks startled when Rick turns up, like he'd been off somewhere in his own head.

"You been drawing me again, mate?" Rick jokes as he slides down opposite him. Their legs have long since been too big for the cramped space. Rick doesn't think much about it—just slots one of his knees between Kieren's.

Kieren wordlessly hands Rick the paper, chewing on his lower lip while he waits. The light in here is dim, but it takes all of a second for Rick to recognize the school crest at the top of the letter.

It feels like someone's tossed his heart away from him—like it's falling faster than he can keep up with.

"You got in?" Rick asks, refolding the letter.

Kieren nods his head, and by the dim light of the candles Rick can see his eyes glisten, his eyelashes clumped together from unshed tears.

"I got in. Full scholarship."

"Fuck me," Rick says, his voice gone hoarse. Kieren looks so wistfully happy, his laughter tinged with disbelief. "You've done it! C'mere you."

Rick clambers over the tangled mess of their legs and smothers him in a hug. It's a bit of a tussle, but it ends up with Kieren trembling in his arms. The position also gives Rick the bulk of Kieren's jacket at his shoulder to hide the utter misery that's washing over him in relentless, crashing waves.

Kieren is getting out of here. Leaving Roarton.

Leaving him.

When Rick pulls back he plasters on a smile, falling shakily to Kieren's side and almost knocking over some candles in the process.

Rick takes Kieren's hand in his, looks down at the thinness of his fingers wrapped in his own, because fuck if he can't have this before losing him.

"So proud of you," he mutters quietly, thumb tracing the outline of Kieren's knuckles. "You deserve everything, the world—God, Ren—"

"Come with me." Kieren looks at him pleadingly, twisting his hand so their fingers link together—so it isn't just Rick holding on this time. "We'll get a flat. Just me and you, no more of this—"

"I can't, Ren." Rick thinks of his father, his mother—all the things he'd be forced to leave behind, the life that fits him. "We'd have no money, and I can't leave my family."

"I don't care," Kieren says, his voice thick again with emotion. "Just come."

"Hey," Rick says, dipping his head to catch Kieren's gaze. The hurt in eyes is too much, it's too familiar. Kieren needs to leave and forget about him, find a life that fits him too. "I'll come visit, yeah? Be nice to have an excuse to get away from time to time."

"For fuck's sake Rick, just come with me, please."

"You know I can't," Rick mutters quietly, his heart cracking in two when Kieren tips forward so their foreheads bump lightly together.

"Then I'm not going."

Rick pulls back. "Fuck off, you are!"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"It's my choice. I haven't decided yet, I need to think about it anyway," Kieren says, turning away from Rick and facing the opposite side of the den.

"It's your dream school, Ren. I told you, you deserve better than this. I meant it."

Kieren shakes his head, but doesn't say much more. He's angry, and it's Rick's fault. It'll always be his fault. Kieren refuses to see reason sometimes, gets so bullheaded about everything whenever Rick's involved.

Rick goes home that night, equally angry at himself for ruining Kieren’s mood, and he tears the army leaflets out from his top drawer. He thumbs through the information he doesn’t even care about reading anymore, picks up the phone, and calls.

 

\--

 

 

It'll never really change, the place they live.

Kieren will always be an outsider here. Rick blames himself for some of it—his father's blind hatred of him something he's never kept much to himself. If Bill Macy thinks Kieren Walker is a certain type of bloke, then the rest of the town does too.

Even here, at the shitty shop on the corner, buying a three litre of White Lightning and a pack of fags, he gets looked at like he's from another planet.

Maybe it's just easier to blame it on his dad. Maybe trying to deduce the reasoning behind the way Kieren gets treated by the people here is too painful. The softer tone of his voice, the graceful way he moves, the different clothes he wears—all of it feels too personal, even to Rick. He could've done something about it, all of it. All the times Kieren had pretended not to flinch at the words of their peers, or had lifted his head as high as it would bloody well go when he walked into a room where he knew he would barely be welcome—Rick could have, should have, put a stop to it all.

But why bother? Why force Kieren into this world, stuffing him into a mold that he'll never quite fit into? He should be off somewhere else, with people that understand and embrace his differences.

It's this resolve that keeps him from shaking every time Kieren hands him the bottle of cider as they sit huddled in the old den.

"Seen Vicky Barnes earlier, looking ready to murder someone," Kieren says with a slight grin, kicking his foot against Rick's. "Something you want to share, mate?"

Rick scoffs a laugh, squeezes the bottle as he chugs down a hefty gulp of the cheap cider.

"She's a piece of work," he says, careful to keep his expression neutral. He hadn't told her _why_ they were done, just that they were, which hadn't exactly made her happy. The only people who know are his parents. "Got better things to do."

Kieren grins full on, like he knows fine well that _things_ means _him_. He leans forward, snatches the fag from the hand Rick doesn't have clamped down around the crumpled width of the bottle, and takes a long drag with his head tilted back.

"Have you now?" Kieren asks with a smirk.

He's gazing at Rick like he knows, and it would be impossible for him not to. Rick is half tempted to just tell him, to grab him right here by the neck and part his mouth with his tongue and then only barely have enough breath left in him to say, _"I think I've loved you my whole life"._

But it'd be cruel to do that to him. The whole point of this is a clean break.

Rick takes another pull of the cider, wincing when the bottle snaps back into form once he's removed his mouth from it. It's already warm and half flat, tastes both too sweet and too bitter all at once, and it's killing him that he's just drunk enough that he'll only half remember this night.

"Girls aren't worth the trouble," Rick says with a shrug, his voice tight from too big a swallow. "Ask Lippie, he's the expert on that excuse."

Kieren laughs, half choking on an inhale of smoke.

"Suppose I would be too, then," Kieren says, with an oddly pointed look.

"Not for long you won't," Rick says, trying not to ache at the thought of him at uni, surrounded by beautiful people that are just as creative and interesting as he is.

Kieren's eyes turn down in an expression that seems caught somewhere between confusion and sadness. He shakes his head, and Rick can't let this conversation go where he thinks it's headed.

"You written back to your school yet then?"

Kieren scoffs. "It's not my school."

"Sure it is. They're handing it to you on a silver bloody platter, mate."

Kieren kicks out at Rick, leaving his foot pressed against the inner part of his thigh once it connects.

"Don't start."

A silence envelopes them then, one that feels stiflingly thick. Kieren shifts his foot, pushes the toe of his boot higher up the length of Rick's thigh. Rick exhales shakily, the sound punched right out of him.

"Ren—"

"You don't come with me, I'm not going," Kieren says, matter-of-fact, despite the tremble in his voice.

Rick swallows thickly, puts his hand around Kieren's boot-clad ankle and squeezes tight.

"I'll think about it," he lies.

Kieren's smile is blinding. If you could hear hearts cracking, Rick's sure his would sound like a gunshot.

 

 

When they part ways back to their respective houses, Rick’s secret burning a hole in his chest, he says, “see you tomorrow, mate.”

Kieren waves and Rick swallows over the growing lump in his throat, refusing to turn back to watch him until he walks out of sight.

 

 

  
\--

 

 

 

His mum and dad see him off, his dad standing about a foot taller with pride and his mum weeping through her smile. Rick kisses her cheek as he gives her a tight hug, and then shakes his dad’s hand.

Despite it all, it feels good to see the blatant admiration written all over his dad’s face. There is love there, however misguided.

As the train pulls out of the tiny station, Rick allows himself to settle numbly into his seat. He lets a few silent tears drip down his face, thumbs the tightly folded sheet of notebook paper in his pocket, and thinks fuck it, he deserves as much. Bit ridiculous that being sad has somehow become a privilege. 

Still, he smiles through it, thinking of Kieren on his own train, headed toward a life that will give him everything Roarton never could. As the rumble of the train rocks him to sleep, he takes solace in that much.

 

 

 


End file.
